Chasing Dragons...

I guess it's okay to discuss this now. I'm trying to hold off from mentioning new stuff, until they solidify. But this has been bumped up, so I'll go ahead and tell you about it.

Two weeks ago, I saw an ad on Craigslist for an audition for the host of a new webisode series that's starting up in Chicago. The concept behind this series is, "The Daily Show Correspondants covering Nothing But Chicago Stuff". So, a localized "Daily Show". An idea that I really dig.

And, honestly, my thought was, "If I can get three or four of these down and they don't look like shite, I can use this as my audition tape to become an actual Daily Show correspondant." As with most of these opportunities, I sent out my interest and availability, with the expectation that I wouldn't hear back from them.

I submitted several headshots, a letter of interest, a recent resume and waited. A week later, I got an email from the producer/director, saying that he'd researched me on YouTube and liked what he saw and asked me if I wouldn't consider becoming "The Chicago Guy" for his series of webisodes.

There will be several hosts for the show. Each one representing a different area of expertise. The Sports Guy. The Club Chick. The Theater Nerd. The Food Eater?!? Me? I will be The Chicago Guy. Dealing with Chicago events, Chicago history and representing the cities perspective. I don't know who the other hosts will be. I think that they're already cast from other sources. Me? I'm the king of this pile of miscreants.

Originally, my first shoot was scheduled for Feb. 15th. At the Chicago Auto Show. Doing a segment called "The Women Of The Auto Show". And I still might do that segment. I have to tell you, I've been secretly planning some Hilarious Bits for that shoot, if it happens.

Today, I got an email from the producer/director of the show and their correspondant that they had lined up for this weekend, had to cancel. She forgot to ask for work off for it. So, they have a segment and no host. I've agreed to take on the gig.

The segment is set to be shot all day, on Sunday, from the Chinatown New Years Eve Parade. The idea is that the segment host will give us a little bit of history of the Chinatown parade and Chinese New Years and then spend the entire segment trying to get a position in one of those Chinese Dragons and actually walk IN THE PARADE! Or RUN in the parade. Because, if they actually let me drive one of those Dragons, we ARE going to run. I promise it.

I shot an email to Greg to see if he's free too. I'd like to bring him and his camera along to photograph the whole experience. In addition to the segments, the show wants to also maintain a blog. And "Behind The Scenes" pics might also make nice additional content to the blog until the segment is edited and ready to go. I'm waiting to hear back from him, if he's available. And furthermore, if the producer is cool with my bringing him. I'm sure it will be fine, though.

So, on this Sunday, in the freezing Chicago cold, I'll don my best business suit, long underwear and heavy overcoat, pick up a microphone and chase dragons in Chinatown. Sounds pretty exciting to me!!!

Cheers,
Mr.B

"I'll have a slice of HOPE, please."

I just read online that Barack Obama just got lunch today at "Manny's" in the Loop at 12:29pm. Picked up his corned beef sandwiches, paid the bill in cash, shook some hands and got out of there.

I like Manny's. I've been there several times for lunch with Hendo, when I used to work down in the Loop. I think that's awesome. I would like to be enjoying a lunch and have Barack Obama walk in. I would like to shake his hand and tell him how proud I was that he won the election.

Living in the president's hometown for the next four years will be a periodic and random source of coolness. Coolness like this.

Bearded I Will Be.

It's winter.

I've decided it.

My feet are cold and I can hear the wind howling past the front windows and yesterday I caught tiny hail stones on my tongue on the walk back from the bank, bundled up like Randy from "A Christmas Story".

It's winter.

And the nice reprieve of moderately warm weather that we enjoyed for the OBama rally on Tuesday was the last breath of Fall, before she gives over to Winter, altogether, the whore. Two weeks of Fall, already gone.

And in recognition of this fact and because it's going to be cold again and because my body marks the changing of the seasons, I've decided that it's time to grow out my beard again. I shaved for the last time on Thursday of last week. Sure, I'll tend the neckline and trim the cheeks and keep it from getting unruly, but bearded I will be.

In a month or less, I will look like this...



And I will feel better for it, because "Beards Are For The Fall."

Cheers,
Mr.B

The Improvisers Breadline.

Tonight, while riding the bus north to catch a train to Evanston for vaudeville rehearsal, I had a thought, "This city isn't as good as it was when Ryan Gilmour was here."

I know how gay and pathetic it sounds to be a grown man, age 33, pining away for another grown man, but there you go. I liked having him here. I called him and we would hang out. Or he would call me and we would walk over to The Daily Grill for dinner. If I was tight on cash, he would cover me and I would try to get him back, when I was flush again. Sometimes we would just walk around the neighborhood and catch up on the gossip or pick movies apart. Good times.

Now, if I want to get a burger with him, I have to fly across the goddamed country.

So there's that.

But more than Ryan's absence, I'm feeling the absence of other displaced friends too.

Bob Ladewig is in Portland.
Corey Harrison is in Louisville, Ky.
Ron Temple is in Some Small-Ass Backwoods Town, Ky.
Reuben West is in Indianapolis, IN.
Mackenzie Baker is in Phoenix, AZ.

People that I used to see and enjoy, regularly, in this city are all gone, gone, gone. It's like there's this long line of improvisers, head bowed, standing in line to leave this city behind, to go somewhere else, to do something else. And that's sad.

As I write this, I am wondering how the old actors that I see around the theater deal with this? The weight of memories past and the insubstantiality of the current times. Do they wander around this city, looking at the changed storefronts and remember places where they used to get beers and shoot pool with their long-gone friends?

I remember this stuff from college. You come together, for a few brief years are a small family with all the good memories and the little dramas that cement you together. And then, one by one, people graduate or leave and go their separate ways. Disperse to the winds.

Part of me always thought that when I got to Chicago, that wouldn't be happening as often. This was a destination for me. The place I wanted to be. And it's such an extraordinarily good place, that I naturally thought that people would want to flock here too. And I guess that they did. For a time. For a while, it was good, and I had a strong family of friends again.

One by one, they all left. Dispersed by new winds. Grad School. Babies. Theaters To Be Opened. Families To Be Started. Things To Do.

I am happy to say that life is still good here. We enjoy the gravity and the spotlight of a major American city, but we still have open expanses of sky and horizontal sprawl and friendly people. Groceries are close by. The public transportation system (mostly) works. People you once knew and loved are getting married and having improv super-babies. Good Stuff, see?

As good as all of this stuff is, it was all better, when you were here.

I might need to avoid "going away parties" for a while.

Lately, I've been missing old friends.

The Tornado Comes To Chicago.

Last night, Chicago got hit by a tornado. It was pretty spectacular.

This particular storm rolled over Evanston around 7:45pm, while I was at the first read-through for "Vaudeville & Vixens". While we were working our way through the "Doctor Sketch & Doctor Plumber" scene, we heard a series of thunderclaps that made everyone around the table shake a little bit. We briefly considered pausing the reading, but we were very safe in the theater, so there was no point in stopping our work. During the 15 min break, I ran out in the rain to get a bottled water and a candybar from the corner newsstand. I stood, briefly, under the railway underpass, with a nice view of a big swatch of sky, watching the lightning strobe and arc through the sky.



After rehearsal, Miss Denita drove me south down into the city and it seemed as if the worst of the storm had passed. Indeed, when I got out of her car at Lawrence to catch the bus, it had almost stopped raining entirely and even the wind and lightning had moved off. On the bus ride down Lawrence, I returned Jenn's call to find out that she was without power in her apartment, watching the storm roll over. We chatted, keeping her entertained in the darkness, while I walked south on Lincoln Ave. Oddly enough, I could see lightning and storming off in the distance and there was a very slight rain for the whole walk home. It was as if the storm had receded for just the short bit of time that I needed to get home.



Because the heavens opened up and dumped rain on us, when I got home and had taken Maggie out for a quick pee. I stopped in the doorway of my backyard, still chatting with Jenn, to watch the lightning wildly flash through the sky. The wind picked up and the big tree behind my house swayed and danced in the rain. I've never seen that particular tree get that active before. I pulled up a chair from the backporch and sat in the doorway, watching the storm grow in intensity.

And it did. First the lightning got closer and closer. Giant, powerful stabs of electricity that blossomed down from the clouds and shot tendrils of lightning off at odd angles. The wind blew with gale force intensity and drove the pounding rain down. A hard, heavy rain that hung in curtains across the backyard. It was one of the most powerful storms I'd ever seen.




Jenn and I tracked the storms progress as it marched steadily across the city. I got the wind and rain first and then it hit in Jenn's neighborhood. I would get a fierce lightning flash and thundercrap and there would be a short delay and Jenn would hear the thunder off in the distance. Or I would see a flash of lightning off in the distance and then hear the tear of instant thunder in the phone and Jenn would yelp "Holy Shit!"

Maggie was with me the whole time. She was, of course, stone-shitting terrified by the whole affair. She alternated her time between pacing by the stairs, hiding under my chair and trying to climb up into my lap. She was in my lap, paws clawing at my pants, when a lightning strike hit right by the house and blew out two different transformers on our block. The lightning and thunder hit instantly for that one and there was a bright, daylight strobe of light and then a pop and crash and the tree behind my house glowed green in an extended arc of light shooting out of the transformer. Half a block away, down the alley another transformer blew, shooting a rain of sparks that quickly died out and then the same pop, crash and flash of green light. That was pretty scary shit. Maggie nearly jumped out of her fur and I thought, "Well, that was close enough for me" and Maggie and I went upstairs for a treat of Beggin' Strips for her and a small dollop of ice cream for me. Jenn ended the call because she was scared of killing her phone with no way to recharge it. I settled down with a book and read until the storm passed over completely.

For a time though, while I was out in the rain, that was one of the most exciting and beautiful storms I'd ever seen. It was a thrill to watch and would've been even more exciting to lay out in the rain, out in some field, feeling the rain smack on your skin on a warm summer night, losing your sense of self in the intense, godly display of power and random, fateless, spectacular destruction.

Cheers all,
Mr.B

Our Last Date.

Tonight, I ...

...paid for everything. You didn't notice, but I did.

...suggested that we leave the bar and drink at the closed, private bar. Which we did.

...ditched the fratboy who was hitting on the blonde. I left him barfing in the greenery with a glass of water when he was done depositing 10 hours of margaritas in the foliage.

...encouraged you and the blonde to kiss.

...took pictures of you and the blonde kissing.

...sent pictures of the blonde and you kissing to Steve from Alabama. Steve from Alabama sent me the video of you and the blonde kissing.

...apologized to the manager, after he found the pitcher you'd hidden in your bag. I returned it, apologizing for my drunken friends and then walked away, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

...poured proper drinks at the bar, including three shots for myself while everyone else was rolling on the floor. I drank alone.

...mopped up the spilled beer when you were straddling my friend on the floor.

...grabbed your forearms and pulled you close to me for our first kiss, because you were too drunk to do it. I doubt you will remember it.

...found an ATM for the blonde, hailed her a cab and sent her home, while you laid groaning on the floor.

...found another cab for you and me and my friend. Got us all home. Paid for the whole trip. Absolutely uncertain that my new ATM card would get us all home. Again, you had no idea.

...gave you a goodbye kiss when you left the cab to enter your apartment building.

You didn't know it then and you won't know it for a while yet, but that was the kiss goodbye. That was the last time that we'll ever go out again.

I don't mind the drunken shenanigans. I don't mind you rolling around on the floor and making out with every girl there. I don't mind the screaming and the singing and inviting the blonde over to our table from nowhere. I just can't forgive you for not including me in all of that. For ignoring me as much as you did.

I suppose that's what I get for dating an actress... again.

Lesson learned.

Tonight, after everyone else piled out of my cab and I raced home, north on Western Ave, over the viaduct, allowing my open-palmed hand to surf on the currents of the wind, I never felt more powerfully, profoundly alive than I did, at that moment. Is it any coincidence that I had to be alone, before I finally realized how alive I was?

Goodnight, moon.

Cheers,
Mr.B



UPDATE: A more considered, reasonable perspective on this date is included in the comments below. It's fair to say that I was pretty drunk and a little upset, when I wrote this blog entry. A day later, totally sober, and the date looked like shenanigans, but not that big a deal, actually.

On the set...

I am typing this blog entry from the set of Pu bl ic En em ies. There's a break in filming and I'm on one of the office computers to check email and post this entry quickly.

Yes, I have access to all of the set.

Yes, I will be back for multiple nights of the shoot.

Yes, I took pictures earlier today, but stopped at sundown. (No flash photgraphy allowed after dark.)

Yes, the director is here.

Yes, the actor that you're wondering about is on set. I'm told that we'll see him do his first shoot outside of my theater in about twenty minutes.

Yes, I'm damned excited.

Yes, the do have bottled water and apples in the craft services table.

No, I can't get you on the set.

Pictures will be posted tomorrow. I have to go. They're about to start filming "someone special's" entrance to the theater.

Cheery Bye,
Mr.B

Summer In Chicago

Matt posted this over on CIN.

Just a very nice little reminder of how good summer in the city can be.

Thanks, Matt.
On this rainy-ass day, I needed that.

Cheers,
Mr.B

One of "My Favorite Things"

If there's a better album than John Coltrane's "My Favorite Things", then I don't know what it is.

Fuck, that guy is amazing.

This is, by the way, what I've been shoving in my ears lately. I acquired it through the Library Grift. It makes me think of Chicago. In the best possible way.

Simply Amazing.

The Big News.

I want to see if I can get across the idea of what happened today, without using any words in this post that would be searchable by Google other search engines. I want to share with you what I found out today, but I don't want it getting back to me or this blog. Frankly, I don't want to risk doing anything that would pooch this deal.

So here goes...

Today, my co-worker, Jenn, the girl who shares a very small office with me, took a call from a production assistant with...



Apparently, they're coming to my city in March to film a movie about this guy...



Which is going to be directed by this guy...



They're offering us lots of this...



Because they want to shoot this guys death scene...



which happened to take place outside of...



...which is also where I work now.

If it happens, it'll be in March. For a week, between our shows. And they would close our street to make it look like it did in 1934, when that guy died. (To learn more about that guy, click here.)

Now here's the really exciting part. That guy, that famous guy that this picture is all about, is going to be played by this guy...



Which means that he's going to be hanging around my workplace for a week or so in March.

I would really like to meet him. He looks like he would be a very cool guy in person.

Jenn is meeting the director this weekend to have them walk around the joint and take pictures and check things out. If all goes well, that will move things into the next level, which is contract negotiations, fee settlements, schedules and discussion about what they're going to do to send that whole block back 70+ years.

Me and my friends agree, one of the things that I'm going to ask the production assistant is if a bunch of us can take a day or two off from work to get work on the set as...



Pretty cool, eh?

Now then, do me a favor and kindly avoid using searchable names or terms in your comments, eh? Anything that actually names those lads or the picture, itself, will be deleted from the blog. So play nice, eh?

Cheers,
Mr.B

Relaxin' At The Green Mill*...

I have to give the Biermeister credit for this. It was Fred, from New Holland Ale, who, when asked, "Where should we go after the Town Hall closes at 2am?", answered, "The Green Mill, of course." He was right that night. And he's been right every Saturday night since then. It IS our favorite After Hours Saturday Night hang-out...



Here's what the wikipedia has to say about The Green Mill.

The Green Mill, located at 4802 N. Broadway in Chicago, is one of gangster Al Capone's former speakeasies from the Prohibition-era roaring '20s. The bar was also a favorite of Charlie Chaplin and Gloria Swanson.

The bar was opened in 1907 as Pop Morse's Roadhouse. At that time, the bar served as a stopping place for mourners before proceeding to St. Boniface Cemetery. A scant three years later, new owners converted the roadhouse into the Green Mill Gardens. Lantern-lit outdoor dancing ran into the wee hours, carried by headliners like Al Jolson, Eddie Cantor and Sophie Tucker. Actors Wallace Beery and Bronco Billy Anderson "also visited the Gardens, hitching their horses to the outdoor post and settling down for a drink after a days work filming westerns at nearby Spoor and Anderson Studios (known as Essanay Studios)," says the Mill's Web site.

As the twenties roared, The Green Mill became mobster territory when Al Capone's henchman, "Machinegun" Jack McGurn, gained a 25% ownership of the club. Manager Danny Cohen had given McGurn the 25% stake to "persuade" comedian/singer Joe E. Lewis from moving his act south to the New Rendezvous Café at Clark and Diversey. McGurn managed to convince Lewis by slitting his throat and cutting off his tongue. Miraculously, Lewis recovered, but his songs never regained their lush sound. The incident was later immortalized in the movie The Joker is Wild, with Frank Sinatra as Joe E. Lewis and a Hollywood soundstage as The Green Mill. Of course, his interest piqued, Sinatra had to visit the club.

Throughout the 1930s, '40s, and 50s, The Green Mill continued to pack 'em in with a heady mix of swing, dance and jazz music. Uptown crowds from the Aragon Ballroom or Uptown and Riviera Theaters would "stop in for one" before or after shows. Business began to slip in the mid-seventies, and in 1986, present owner Dave Jemilo bought The Green Mill and restored it to its prohibition-era, speakeasy decor.

That's the joint that we frequent now...



Once inside, the first thing that you notice is that it's dark. The walls are bathed in a red glow and the deco ceiling features barely give off any light at all...



The Saturday Late-Night Live Jazz Combo is called The Sabertooth Jazz Quintet. The lead horn player's name is Pat. And he's a madman on the saxophone. After his set is done, he'll walk right off the stage, come up to our table and say "hey". He's the coolest, easiest cat you'll ever meet. He has to be. He's a jazzman.



Hendo is convinced that Pat looks like Neil Patrick Harris (Doogie Howser, MD) and likes to yell "NPH" at the end of the sets. Pat smiles and laughs it off. I get the impression that he's heard that joke before.

Take a second and look at the decor. Dimply lit statues stand in the corners, leering down at you, defying you to talk during the sets. (I've been to some shows where the audiences aren't allowed to talk during the sets and have to have all cigarettes extinguished an hour before the show begins, to protect the singers voices. They take their jazz seriously at The Mill.)







And if you look very carefully, you might spot a friend or two, hanging out in one of the side booths.



As hot as the music is, and it IS hot...



And as tasty as the hooch is, and it IS tasty...



The absolute best thing about spending the wee hours of the morning at the Green Mill are the good friends that I share it with...







I tell you, there's no place like it. When you're there, in the last few hours of the night and you're tossing back smoothly poured, chilled vodka drinks and the musicians have passed the focus off to the drummer and he's working his way through some unknown, alien exploration of the OTHER rhythms that he hears in the piece, and the waitress is annoyed with you for not paying quick enough, and a couple in the corner are quietly making out and the old man with the Crohn's is camped out in the bathroom, tapping his foot along with the song and the lights are low... you never feel more of a Chicagoan, than you are, at that very moment.

Right then.
Right there.
You've got it, man.
You're holding it in the palm of your hand.
You are a Chicagoan.

That's what I tried to capture with my pictures, the last time I was there. What it feels like to be in the right place, with the right people, at the right time, to be who you essentially are...

That's what Saturday Nights at The Green Mill mean to me.

Cheers,
Mr.B



For a nice peek down into the tunnels that run underneath the Green Mill, check out this little short film from the Tribune. (MEGA PROPS TO HENDO FOR FINDING THAT CLIP AND PASSING IT ALONG TO ME.)

*Bonus points to the jazzfans who correctly identified the title of this post as a reference to the Coltrane song, "Relaxin' at Camarillo."

The Dirtiest Building In Chicago.

This building is on Clinton, about one block south of Lake. Right by where I currently work. Every time I walk to the Metra station for lunch, I walk right past it. And I giggle.
Because it REALLY IS the dirtiest building in Chicago.

Take a look.



What? You can't see it?

Look again.



Dirty.
Dirty.
Dirty.

Cheers.
Mr.B

The Rooftop Was Looking Back At Me.

This morning, at the Western El stop, I saw something very odd.

Luckily for me, I had my camera with me and was able to capture it on film.

Whilst standing on the platform, innocently looking over at a neighbors backyard...


I casually glanced down at the top of the garage roof...


And was surprised to see there...


That The Rooftop Was Looking Back At Me.


That's how I knew it was going to be a good day.

Cheers,
Mr.B

"Clark Street Bridge" by Carl Sandburg

Doing some research for a new, big project, I have recently enjoyed the pleasure of reading some of Carl Sandburg's poetry about Chicago. Despite our temporally different views of the city, we both agree - there's no finer city on Earth.

Here's a reprint of his poem, "Clark Street Bridge." It's short and sweet and a little bit sad. It is, in short, just lovely.

Enjoy.

CLARK STREET BRIDGE

DUST of the feet
And dust of the wheels,
Wagons and people going,
All day feet and wheels.

Now. . .
. . Only stars and mist
A lonely policeman,
Two cabaret dancers,
Stars and mist again,
No more feet or wheels,
No more dust and wagons.

Voices of dollars
And drops of blood
. . . . .
Voices of broken hearts,
. . Voices singing, singing,
. . Silver voices, singing,
Softer than the stars,
Softer than the mist.

The Splendid City

First, let me say that as I sit here, typing this, I am wearing my long underwear and my pants cuffs are soaked up to mid-thigh. So, I've earned my right to espouse upon the topic of the weather for a bit...

I love Chicago.

She is, in my mind, The Splendid City.

I love her beautiful architecture. I love her public parks. I love her nightclubs and bars. I love her theaters and comedy clubs. I love her little mom and pop burger joints. I love her tiny, self-owned resale shops. I love public transportation. I love her beaches. I love nearly everything about her. Walking on a Chicago city street at 3 in the morning, on some warm summer night with some pretty little gal is almost as pleasurable as a long, lazy afternoon of sex. It's that good.

It is my theory that God, in his infinite wisdom, has placed this Heavenly city on the Earth for us to enjoy. To live well and enjoy a long, happy live there. And to make sure that this Splendid City is enjoyed by the devout and the worthy, he has sent the Midwestern Snow Storm to test their mettle.

If a Chicagoan can brave the walk from train station to office, in wind so strong that it threatens to lay you down on the sidewalk and hold you there, past rivers of slushy melted snow and over the ankle-mangling, moonscape geography of a heavily-trod, un-shoveled sidewalk, to get to a job that the don't really like, all that much, without investigating apartment rental rates somewhere in the American Southwest, then they are good and pure and tested and holy and deserve to enjoy the pleasures that this bountiful city has to offer. This is God's way of discouraging the raging assholes of the world from staying here.

I gladly suffer it. The spring and summer and made that much sweeter because I know that they're book-ended by 7 months of icy, frigid hellishness.

Cheers,
Mr.B

Check out this Chicago Story!

Madge Hixx posted something cool over on her blog, which I would like to direct your attention to.

Check it out

Bookmark her blog. If you aren't checking it daily, you're missing out on some fine reading.

Thank Me Later!

Cheers,
Mr.B